


Droit de Seigneur

by VelvetMace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Dark!Mycroft, Disturbing Themes, Dystopia, M/M, Squick, Violence, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10008300#t10008300">This Prompt:</a>Mycroft has the world under his fingertips, but his brother is more elusive.  But what Sherlock has, Mycroft wants, and what Mycroft wants, he gets.</p><p> </p><p>"Emperor sounds so distressingly tyrannical.  I prefer to be called Mr. Holmes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Droit de Seigneur

**Author's Note:**

> I've put fuller warnings in the endnotes, but trust me on this one, it they will actually spoil the fic. It's better to read without them.

Mycroft smiled charmingly at the cameras and fielded the expected questions with finesse and sincerity. The questions were expected because they'd been pre-approved, even the ones that sounded hard-ball. In fact, Mycroft had made sure that there were a few particularly difficult questions, ones that highlighted embarrassing oversights on his part. He would refer to them later as the impetus for sweeping changes. He'd earn points for being sensitive to his subjects and being humble enough to admit he was wrong, all whilst not compromising on his long term agenda.

 _This,_ he thought to himself, _Is how one plays chess._

"One last question," he offered up, then pointed to the woman in green, who he'd been holding in reserve.

"Have you thought of a title for yourself," the reporter asked. "Some are suggesting Emperor."

He let his eyes flick to the ground demurely as if the question embarrassed him. "Emperor sounds so distressingly tyrannical. I prefer Mr. Holmes. But I suppose if a title is needed, I'd pick World Leader. That's all I am – a leader with a vision to bring this world together in the spirit of unity and hope. A leader who recognizes that one countries problems affect another. A leader who will happily step down should my vision prove faulty. All I ask is for five years to prove myself.

"And that is all the time I have for now. Thank you all for coming. I hope to see you soon, and with good things to report."

He did a nod with his head at the assemblage and smiled winningly at the cameras. Then, slowly, with relaxed confidence, he stepped away from the podium to a roar of applause.

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later he was in the safety of his car. The windows were tinted to near black. He had his bodyguard to one side and loyal Anthea seated across from him.

"Sherlock didn't attend," he said, in a mildly disapproving tone that made the bodyguard actually flinch. "Do send him a text, my dear. Tell him that I've grown tired of incessant rebellion. These things will have consequences."

Anthea's thumbs flew over the tiny keyboard of her BlackBerry. Mycroft looked out the window and rubbed his chin.

A moment later her mobile rang. "He says 'Sod off, I'm busy.'"

"Busy is he?" Mycroft mused. "Report." The word was an easy drawl, but Anthea flew into action like she'd been whipped. She called up information and files on her mobile with a speed and adroitness that few could rival.

"He just finished investigating a series of homicides posing as suicides last night," said Anthea. "He's been with Lestrade all morning giving a statement and wrapping up the case."

"And he couldn't spare an hour to appear on stage with me, showing his support?" Mycroft frowned. "As if he weren't an embarrassment enough, the way he hobnobs with the lowest dregs of society. I don't think I shall ever understand why he wastes his talents on petty crime, and sordid murders. He should be leading armies, not traipsing about solo through the grimy streets. He's not a police officer. His obsessions are positively macabre."

Anthea nodded without looking up. "Though, sir, you might want to know he isn't solo anymore."

Mycroft stiffened and sat up. "What do you mean?"

"He brought a friend to the crime scene yesterday, and right now they are together at the MET."

"A friend," repeated Mycroft breathing just a bit harder. "I didn't assign Sherlock a friend. Tell me about him."

Sherlock never had friends. Sherlock knew the consequences for having friends outside those Mycroft had approved. He'd known since childhood. Why had he given in? Was he finally weakening? Why make such a sloppy move now.

"He's a doctor, ex-soldier. Recently brought back from Afghanistan. Name is John Watson."

"John Watson. Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Let's have a look at this fellow."

Anthea turned her phone towards him. Mycroft saw a handsome man, not young, a bit weary and rugged. Mycroft licked his lips, his mind whirring.

This too was chess. A game that he'd been playing with his brother since Sherlock was a teen. He'd wittled down Sherlock's pieces one by one through the years, but the rascal had always managed to elude checkmate. Not this time perhaps. Not if Mycroft made a decisive enough move.

"Bring me to his flat, and fill me in more about this John Watson."

Anthea nodded and innocently complied with his request.

* * *

 

It was the first time that Mycroft had ever been in this particular flat. Sherlock moved on average once a year, as if changing location would somehow lead his restless spirit to some sort of happiness. Mycroft recognized it as simple obstinacy. Refusal to give in to the status quo. Delaying the inevitable.

The landlady flinched a bit to see him at the door but had let him in with a quiet, "your highness," and a trembling voice.

He smiled at her as reassuringly as he could. "My dear Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what horrible things my brother has been telling you about me, but I assure you they are all exaggerations. Disparaging me to everyone he meets is just his way of stepping out from under my shadow. He makes up the most outrageous lies. There's no truth in any of it, I assure you."

Mrs. Hudson met his eyes with doe-like surprise. "It did seem a bit bad, sir, milord."

"Mr. Holmes," Mycroft corrected. "I'm just a man."

"You are very kind to him, then, considering," the words were almost whispers.

"I try to be," said Mycroft.

The woman lead him upstairs to the flat and opened the door. Mycroft looked around, assessing the place. It was tiny and its claustrophobic quality was only enhanced by the heaps of clutter. The décor was perfectly atrocious. It smelled of chemicals and decay, of mold and dust. It reeked of desperation.

"Tell me," said Mycroft surveying the room, "What relationship does John Watson have with my brother?"

"They are flatmates, sir," she said. "That's all."

"Which rooms are whose?" He opened up a room down the hall and glanced in. It was a pit. Boxes and boxes. The bed was like a bare oasis amid the junk.

"This is Sherlock's room. Dr. Watson sleeps in the attic bedroom."

She followed him as he mounted the steps to the attic and gave a quick look at the neat, tidy room at the top. Oh, yes. All very military ship-shape. What had ever possessed the man to take up his slob of a brother? Well, he'd regret it soon enough.

"And how long have Sherlock and John been together?" Mycroft smiled at her.

"Only a day, so they say. They met day before yesterday."

"And why?" asked Mycroft.

"To share the rent. Neither makes enough on his own. There is room for two."

"So a flatmate, and that's all," mused Mycroft. "And yet they are off solving crimes together within a day," he mused. "That's awfully fast, don't you think?"

"Dr. Watson is a very nice man," Mrs. Hudson said quickly. "And he has nothing but the highest regard for your brother. I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. They seemed very happy together."

Mycroft smiled at her. "Oh, don't worry. I bear no ill will towards Dr. Watson. I'm _glad_ my brother found a friend." He lifted up a framed picture of Watson with his army mates. "Quite glad indeed."

* * *

 

He waited in the sitting room for them to come home, working his way through a pot of tea and plate of biscuits that Mrs. Hudson gave him. His bodyguard had winced while tasting the food, but nothing happened. Mycroft wasn't surprised. He knew both by the character of the woman and by the smell and appearance of the food that it was perfectly safe.

He heard feet coming up the steps and the sounds of cheerful voices. Sherlock was happily regaling this new friend of his. John's voice meshed with his, lighter, higher. Full of praise. Anthea had said that John was a flatterer. His praise must have been like a soothing plaster to Sherlock's bruised ego.

Mycroft smiled ironically and waited, fingers steepled together under his chin.

"Mrs. Hudson," John called out. "We're back."

Mrs. Hudson didn't reply. Mycroft had suggested she leave and gave her a bit of money for a treat. She'd eagerly taken both the advice and the note and fled.

The doorknob turned and opened. Sherlock's turned from his friend to the room and in the space of a second his smile snuffed out, like a candle in a brisk wind.

"Get out," he rumbled. Low and deadly.

"Is that how you greet your brother," Mycroft asked with a sad smile.

John Watson entered the room and looked at him, curious for a fraction of a second, then as recognition hit, he seemed to almost stagger backwards. "You –" he turned to Sherlock. "You are related to our –" he stopped again and seemed to collect his thoughts. "Good afternoon, Sir." He managed at last.

"Don't be polite to him," snarled Sherlock. "He's no right to be here. None at all."

"But he's –" said John.

"I bloody well know who he is, it doesn't matter. This is our home. We've a right to toss him out if we want. You don't _own_ us!" Sherlock said to him.

Mycroft gave a weary smile. "I really had hoped that leaving you alone would improve your mood a little. Perhaps bring back some fondness?"

"Fond," Sherlock spat. "Of a black-hearted monster like you?"

"Monster? Really?"

"You aren't as loved as you think you are, Mycroft. No matter how well you control the media, no matter how much you massage your image, people recognize a despot when they see one. They will rise up against you."

"Oh Sherlock, always so jealous. The people love me. I'm bringing back the good days. I've rebuilt Britain's Empire, and her people are proud to be the leaders of the world once more."

Sherlock flushed. Mycroft's eyes grew colder.

John shifted his eyes from Sherlock to Mycroft as if he were worried that one of them might explode.

"Sit down," Mycroft said. He hardened his voice into an order. He locked eyes with Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated, defiant. Mycroft shifted his eyes to John and Sherlock sat down quick.

"You, too, John," said Mycroft, bringing his attention fully to the Doctor. There was a flicker of glances between Sherlock and John that was almost too quick to catch, but Mycroft did and his smile deepened.

"Actually," said John, clearing his throat awkwardly, "If you don't mind, sir, I have a chore I need to be doing. I think I'll leave the two of you." Sherlock looked relieved.

 _No, none of that,_ thought Mycroft. He didn't even have to say anything or make any overt gestures. His bodyguard took a step in front of the door cutting off John's retreat.

"Do stay, John. This concerns you, too." Mycroft smiled at Sherlock. "It concerns you perhaps most of all."

* * *

 

The first time Mycroft had this discussion, Sherlock had been fifteen. After years of following in Mycroft's shadow, he'd begun to strike out on his own. The boy had developed a puppy-like fascination with one of his school chums. Even though it was entirely against the rules, and dire consequences were posted, fumbles in the bushes were a fairly normal part of the boarding school experience. Mycroft wouldn't have minded if the object of Sherlock's attention weren't so … difficult. That wouldn't do at all. Mycroft had stopped it in a single night.

The second time was Sherlock's first year at uni. The results were predictable. Almost boring.

The last time Mycroft had had this discussion, Sherlock been in his last year at Uni. He'd become craftier with age. Better at hiding secrets. But in the end, Mycroft had found out anyway.

He'd had Sherlock and his unauthorized friend brought before him. He'd fed them tea and explained patiently _how it would be._ They'd listened in shocked silence. Sherlock's hands had balled up so tight he'd cut his palms with his nails. His friend had numbly nodded his head, fighting off tears with all his might.

It was cruel of course. It was meant to be cruel. But Sherlock had been warned, so if anything the responsibility lay on his shoulders. After the deed was done, the friend had disappeared quite voluntarily. Moved to America to begin another life. He hadn't returned Sherlock's letters, had switched phone numbers until Sherlock gave up.

Mycroft had done his best to comfort his brother. To reason with him. It wasn't as if Sherlock needed this friend. This loose cannon. This unscripted element in his life. If Sherlock wanted friends, Mycroft had friends for him. People carefully chosen to be compatible and supportive, with impeccable backgrounds and unshakable loyalty. Sherlock could be quite happy. And if Sherlock wanted lovers, he could have that, too. Male, female, two at a time if that was what he wanted. All he had to do was ask and Mycroft would supply them.

The price was a simple one. Obedience. Fidelity. Love. And wasn't that what a younger brother should give his older sibling in any case?

Sherlock had avoided the appearance of friendliness with anyone from then on, cultivating a cold and forbidding exterior. It seemed that he'd learned his lesson, though not in the way Mycroft had hoped. And now, for whatever reason, Sherlock had changed again.

It was a shame these other people had to pay the price for Sherlock's rebelliousness. It was a shame that history had to repeat. But perhaps fourth time was the charm. Perhaps ten years of loneliness was enough to teach Sherlock that the only way to peace and happiness was the easy path. Mycroft's path.

* * *

John's hand had trembled as he stood. He had an expression that was half way between utter shock and utter revulsion. Sherlock had curled into a ball on the couch, his head turned towards the wallpaper.

"You knew," said Mycroft. "You can't say you didn't know. We've been through this three times before."

"It's been _ten years_ ," Sherlock hissed. "I'd hoped you'd have grown out of this petty competition."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "You think this is about competition? You think that I'm doing this because I'm jealous? Oh, Sherlock that isn't it at all. I'm doing this because I love you. I'm doing this because it's the only thing you seem to listen to. The only thing that effects you. It's been ten years since you've made a mistake like this."

"If you don't want this," said John. "And Sherlock doesn't want this. And I don't want this – why do this?" It was like the soft weak fluttering of birds wings against Mycroft's reason. "It's mad. It's unbecoming of you and your position. And it's wrong."

Mycroft looked him over. He seemed so tiny, five foot seven. So weak and thin. Barely rehabilitated from his injuries. Helpless. And yet for that he held such a dignified expression. There were no tears in his eyes. No begging. John might not be strong in body but he was strong in spirit.

There was beauty in that. After ten years of abstinence, Sherlock had chosen to break his fast on a magnificent specimen. Deflowering John would not be a chore.

"I don't want this?" said Mycroft. "Oh, but to the contrary. I do want it. I want this very, very much." He grabbed his umbrella and stood up. "And what I want, I get."

 

* * *

 

Mycroft called ahead to have the room made ready, then he ushered John down the stairs, hand on his elbow to support him and to prevent any notion of making a dash for it. Sherlock had begged for more time. Let John get used to the idea. Let him explain.

No. No. To give Sherlock any time would invite conspiracy and craftiness. No, this would be a quick and decisive conquest. The deed would be done. The message sent.

Sherlock would know that all that is his, was Mycroft's. That anyone he might love, Mycroft would love first.

"In the olden days, they used to call this _droit de seigneur_ ," said Mycroft. "The master of the estate had the right to bed his serf's bride on her wedding night. It insured that everyone understood their place. It affirmed the Lord's absolute power over his people."

"These days they just call it rape," replied John. "And even if you are a defacto Emperor, there is no justifying this."

Mycroft looked at him. "I mean you no harm, John. You are simply a pawn in a very long going battle between myself and my brother. With any luck, this will be the last play and Sherlock will resign the board."

"If you truly mean no harm then you will let Sherlock be. He's your brother, not your serf. He should be allowed to have his own friends. His own life."

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't do that."

The limousine was waiting by the time they reached the streets. People stared and Mycroft smiled at them. The bodyguard gave John a little push against the small of his back, and the doctor obediently climbed in. Mycroft sat next to him.

He offered John a drink from the stocked minibar. The man nodded and Mycroft poured him a scotch and soda. Being a little drunk might make things easier for him. Mycroft wasn't such a bastard that he'd deny him that. After all, he really didn't want to hurt the poor little man.

"You are very forthright," Mycroft said as John downed the drink in desperate gulps. "It's a rare quality. Most people bend over backwards not to get on my bad side. Most people are absolutely petrified of me. But you aren't." He gazed quizzically over at the man. "Why aren't you, John?"

"Who is to say I'm not," John replied wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "You scare me senseless, sir. I'm not naïve enough to think that an evening in your bed is the worst you can do to me."

"It's good you understand that."

"But even so, I don't think you deserve my respect for this."

"Perhaps I don't."

"There is still time for you to change your mind," said John. There was a hint of pleading in his voice.

Mycroft chuckled and then reached over to pat John's cheek. "But I don't want to change my mind. I'll admit something to you, John." His eyes glowed and he felt a bit of warmth for his soon to be lover. "I'm drawn to power. I find it… very… exciting. The fact that you aren't willing and yet will still be mine is indescribably arousing. It simply isn't winning if the other willingly gives something up." Mycroft ran his hand over John's hair, feeling it's fine texture. "It's not that I want to hurt you or destroy you. I'm not a sadist, despite what it may appear. I simply want to possess you, completely. I want to know that you are mine for as long as I want you."

John twisted away from his hand. Mycroft let him go and sat back.

* * *

 

They made it to Mycroft's estate at the edge of London. The tall brick wall topped with barbed wire looked forbidding, but once inside the heavy gates, the place was beautiful. There was acres of gardens, a hedge maze, a conservatory, and finally wide lawn of perfectly manicured grass, like a carpet surrounding the marble columned main house. The limousine pulled up to the sweeping front steps, and Mycroft ushered John out.

John limped horribly. He'd not been allowed to bring his cane for security reasons. Out of pity, Mycroft held out his arm and John took it. The bodyguard followed a step behind keeping a hawks eye on him. But John behaved. He behaved admirably.

As if pretending that this were a normal visit, Mycroft pointed out the features of the house as they walked through it. This vase was Ming. That painting, a genuine Van Gogh on loan from the National Gallery. Servants in matching uniforms stood at attention in nooks, chin up, eyes forward, acting like more pieces of elegant furniture than people. John stared and listened, seeming to be biding his time looking for a sympathetic face or any chance to escape the situation. Mycroft had done this often enough to know there wasn't any. The servants were all perfectly loyal and well versed in his more perverse habits.

Mycroft lead him up a spiral staircase to the second floor and then back at last to a large, opulent bedroom. John's eyes went from Mycroft to the bodyguard to the two burly looking servants who appeared as they entered the room. The doctor's body language was tense as if sizing things up.

 _He's losing his nerve,_ thought Mycroft sympathically. He made a hand gesture, and took any thought John might have had of fighting.

While Mycroft sat back in one of the plush chairs, his servants grabbed John and made efficient work at removing his clothes. John struggled a little, before resigning himself to the futility of the situation. He was lead at last, almost docile, to the bed where the servants strapped his wrists to the headboard.

"Please," said John, pleading with his eyes. "You don't have to do this."

Mycroft smiled as the servants retreated to the hall and the bodyguard took his place by the door, staring impassively. He began undressing, taking his time. There was no hurry after all.

"At least don't make me do this in front of others," John looked meaningfully over to the bodyguard.

"Ah, but what if you attempt to kick or bite me?"

"I promise I won't, and if I do, you can punish me for it." John's stared fiercely. "Just give me a bit of dignity. I'll make it worth your while."

"And how can you do that, John?" Mycroft stopped, his fingers on the buttons of his waistcoat. _Another game,_ he thought. _With a new opponent. What sort of chess would John Watson play?_

John took a deep breath then firmed his chin. "I can act like a lover instead of a rape victim. I can cooperate with whatever act you have in mind."

"And why would I want that?" Mycroft asked.

"You know I'm not willing," said John. "How much more power can you have than the power to make me cooperate? To… even make me enjoy your touch?" The words sounded a bit forced as though the idea were revolting to him.

_Tempting. Almost certainly a trap somehow… but tempting. Can I turn this gambit on its ear?_

Mycroft smiled a slow, easy smile. "Really? Would you do that? Would you come for me?" None of Sherlock's other friends had come for him. They'd merely endured.

"I can't promise, but I can try," said John. "If you can make me come, trust me, it will be a triumph as I pretty much hate your guts. Sir."

Mycroft laughed. "You are really full of surprises John. I'll tell you what. I'll indulge you. Make this fun for me, and I'll will try my hardest to make it enjoyable for you as well."

With a quick gesture he sent the bodygaurd to wait just outside the door. John's shoulders slouched with relief.

Mycroft finished undressing. He was hard, of course. The whole situation was unbearably arousing. But he was more than that. He was curious. He'd never been curious during sex before. In some ways the act had always been a bit of an anticlimax. Predictable pleasure. Predictable sounds. Predictable devastation in the aftermath. This was something new.

Sherlock had picked _magnificently_ this time around. He'd actually chosen a man _worth_ possessing.

Mycroft climbed onto the bed. John lay there, his legs together, groin limp, his face deliberately blank. He looked like a man preparing himself for war. Mycroft stroked his face, then absently drew a pattern over his skin with a finger. Here he felt the roughness of a beard, here soft flesh. Mycroft leaned in and kissed.

John kissed back. It was a careful kiss. A follow the leader one. But it was definitely a kiss. His lips felt firm and oh so warm. Mycroft tested him with a tongue, and John parted his lips and took him in, sucking gently, tenderly.

Mycroft didn't think it was possible to get harder, but he did. His manhood was like an iron rail. Thick, heavy, powerful. He let go of John's lip with a little nip. Nothing that would really hurt or leave a mark. Just a reminder of his own strength. John flinched, just slightly. Then relaxed again.

Mycroft was out of breath already. He sweated. His hands shook with need. _Calm,_ he schooled himself. This would be over too fast if he let his libido overwhelm him too much. John had promised to come for him. He wanted that come. He wanted to feel the man's semen, hot and sticky in his hand. Proof of ownership down to the core.

Mycroft considered the challenge. He ran his hands down the soft naked flesh of his torso, curling his hands to sweep around the hard muscles of his stomach. Ah, a twitch. Did this tickle? Did this feel good? He swept back up and reached the pectorals. Here was a nub, and there. Did they like a little pinch? From the way they tightened into hard buttons, yes they did.

John gasped. His limp cock filled and lengthened. Not hard yet, but definitely interested.

"You know, you could unstrap me," he mentioned hopefully.

"Don't push your luck too far," said Mycroft with a smile. "You promised me you'd come. I expect you will."

Mycroft then attacked John's throat with his mouth, drawing his tongue to John's chest in a wide swath. The man tasted of salt and sweat. Mycroft detected fear, and excitement. Just a trace of arousal. He explored the shallow valley of his breastbone. Then shifted over to tease the tip of one nipple with a light flick. John shifted with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.

Mycroft's hand went lower, found his penis and began pumping gently. The cock filled out, rose, a respectable pillar. John had his eyes screwed shut, his teeth gritted.

"Who are you imagining?" Mycroft asked.

"Your brother."

"You want to fuck him?"

"Yes. Please. If you want me to stay hard, don't talk. This isn't easy."

Mycroft chuckled, but not as easily as before. As fun as this game was, as intriguing as it was, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if he could make John genuinely want him. Win over not just his body but his soul?

Mycroft sat up long enough to reach the bottle of lube on the end table. He poured a generous amount onto his hand and went back to stroking John. His flagging erection hardened again and the man let out a slight whimper.

The sound seemed to go straight through Mycroft's body like an arrow of pleasure. And suddenly the situation was simply too stimulating to bear. Quickly he rolled on a condom and lubed himself up, his cock actually throbbing in his hands. He pulled John's legs apart roughly and moistened him there. John whimpered a second time, but not with pleasure.

Grasping the man's hips, hindered momentarily by his own slippery hands, Mycroft lined himself up and began pressing, slowly but surely forward. He was rebuffed and his cock slipped beneath along the crack instead of going in. Grunting with frustration he tried again, slipping his fingers in to widen the hole, then lining himself up. This time the muscle gave and with a slight barking cry from John, he was in.

He pushed forward until he was seated. Then he waited because he was already so close to coming a single thrust would have been too much. He grabbed John's limp cock and began pumping it again, quickly, insistently. John kept his eyes shut. Mycroft saw his lips form a voiceless word: "Sherlock."

Mycroft began to thrust. Lust spiraled out of control immediately and he found himself spilling into the condom within a minute. Without pulling out, he raced his hand over John's erection. "Remember your promise," he hissed.

John screwed up his face then his hips bucked and come spilled out. A small load. Mycroft gazed down at the sticky puddle as a feeling of bliss permeated his chest.

"You truly are an amazing man," he said. "That was quite an experience."

John opened his eyes. "So, that's that." He said defiantly. "You got to fuck me first. I fulfilled my promise. So now you can take me back home and leave me and Sherlock alone."

Mycroft blinked with surprise. "Am I hearing you right? I raped you and you plan on staying with Sherlock?"

"Droit de seigneur is a one time deal," said John. "Sherlock didn't rape me, you did, so why should I hold it against him. And now that you've played your sordid little game, you can fuck off. I passed your test. I've earned the right to be with your brother."

Was that how John thought this game was played? As a test? Mycroft thought, surprised. How innocent this man was!

"You were expecting me to run off and leave him alone and friendless again," said John. "If I did that you'd win. I'm not going to let you ruin Sherlock's life like this. He's a good man. He doesn't deserve it."

"Droit de seigneur – did you really take that seriously?" He scoffed. "If you stay with Sherlock, I will take you again," Mycroft warned darkly. "I will rape you when the mood strikes me."

John didn't even flinch. "If that's the price of his company. I'll take it."

Mycroft's eyes grew larger. "Would you really? Do you like Sherlock that much… or is it that you enjoyed this as much as I did." It was almost disappointing.

"Oh, don't worry about this being consensual. I hate you. I utterly loathe you. Sleeping with you is a chore. But I'll do it, the way I'd scrub a dirty privy if it needed doing." There was nothing at all ambiguous about the hateful look in John's eye.

Mycroft's groin stirred again. It was unbelievable. This was getting better and better. Mycoft didn't even know what to call this game. All he knew is that it was terribly exciting.

"Unstrap me and let me prove myself," said John calmly. "I'll ride you. I'll suck you off. Whatever dirty, nasty thing you want, I'll do. As long as I get to live and work with Sherlock when you are through."

"You really think you can bargain with me?"

"I can try," said John. "And honestly, I think you will take it. Because you aren't going to get an offer like this from anyone else. And you are already hard for me."

Mycoft let out a laugh. He was. My God, he hadn't been able to raise himself twice in a row since his uni days. He was like some hormonal teen. What an amazing man this John Watson was. It was just as well he wasn't going to run off after this. The thought of fucking this man again was … intoxicating.

"Very well," said Mycroft breathless. "Let's try it your way. Roll another condom on me and ride me." He unstrapped John's hands.

Though it didn't make a dent in his rampant libido, he recognized that he was treading into dangerous territory here. Ceding control, no matter how slight, opened him to danger. And yet, how could he deny himself this opportunity? He – the Leader of the World – _deserved_ this tryst.

He sucked in a breath, ready to call the guard the moment John attacked. But the little soldier didn't. One hand then the other was released. Instead of fleeing or strangling Mycroft, John reached over to the stack of condoms on the side table and tore open the foil on one.

"Lie back, sir," he said. No smile. Oh so very military.

Mycroft lay back. The bed was comfortable. His cock was already throbbing with need. John's hands were soft and careful, rolling the latex sheath down, then relubing him up. For a moment John knelt over him, looking down with a mixture of contempt and sadness, then he slowly lowered himself onto Mycroft's erection and began to ride.

"Good man," said Mycroft. "Very good."

Rational thought was driven away by the warmth and tightness and oh so wonderful friction around his cock. The earlier come had given him stamina. He was able to take and enjoy John's body without being edged to orgasm too quickly. He already knew that this would be better a better come than the first.

"Have you ever done this before?" Mycroft asked.

"I've used toys on myself, but no. I've never fucked a man like this before."

"For a virgin, you are doing admirably."

"Glad you think so," said John in the deadest voice possible.

He worked himself on Mycroft's cock for a minute. There were some discrepancies battering at Mycroft's mind, but he pushed them away as irrelevant. What did it matter that John's lame leg wasn't twitching. What did it mean when John's hand reached over and caressed the side of Mycroft's face? Mycroft sighed. Maybe John thought that Mycroft wanted the touch. Maybe Mycroft did. Mostly he wanted this to go on and on.

Unexpectedly, John stopped moving, his right hand slid from Mycroft's cheek to his neck. Mycroft felt a jolt of fear but the touch was still tender and the man was not so large as to be able to strangle him one handedly.

"Are you checking my pulse," Mycroft asked, jokingly.

To his surprise, John smiled thinly. "Yes, actually, I am."

Before Mycroft could reply, John made his move. He slammed his fist into the center of Mycroft's chest, stealing away Mycroft's witty reply along with his breath.

One second Mycroft was drowning in pleasure, the next it seemed as if his chest were being crushed under a boulder. Pain made his eyes water. His heart! His heart! He couldn't hear his heartbeat anymore! He willed it to beat but the pressure was too intense and all he could do was cough. He was dying.

John had _killed_ him.

"Gaurd!" he cried out, but John's hand was over his mouth and his voice sounded hopelessly feeble even to his own ears. His eyes were graying out – too quick. For the first time since early childhood, he was truly and utterly helpless.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was John's face staring down, impassive, merciless, cold.

* * *

 

John didn't move. He ached from Mycroft's erection still inside him, but his conscience was miraculously clear. He'd worried that he'd feel bad about killing a man, but he didn't. Mycroft was a terrible person and the world was better without him in it.

He stared up at the grandfather clock in the corner and watched the second hand sweep around. One minute. Two. Three. Four. He didn't dare wait much longer. Even though there was a chance that Mycroft could still be revived at this point, the likelihood was greater that there'd be debilitating brain damage and that would work just as well.

Five minutes. Now. "Help!" he cried out.

No one came. Of course they didn't come. They were probably used to Mycroft's victims begging. Disgusted he tried again. "Someone help! I think he's having a heart attack."

The door burst open. John leaned forward and began doing compressions on Mycroft's chest, covering over the red spot from the killing blow with new bruises and rib fractures. "Do you know CPR?" he asked the guard who stared with panic.

He was grabbed and thrown off of Mycroft so quick he almost didn't have time to protect himself from the drop to the floor. "What's wrong with him!" the guard barked out. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. We were having sex and just now I noticed he wasn't responding anymore. I checked his pulse and it was gone. He's having a heart attack, man. I'm a doctor. Let me help." John wasn't an actor but he managed to surprise himself with his own sincerity.

The guard nodded. "Help him!"

"I'll do chest compressions, you do the breath."

The two burly servants entered at that point. "Call the paramedics," John ordered one, and then to the other, "Is there a defibrillator in this building?" In an estate this size it was a possibility.

They continued to work on him for the next few minutes. When the servant came back with a defibrillator, John dutifully set it up and used it. He stifled a sigh of relief when it didn't work and Mycroft's heart stayed resolutely flatlined.

The room swiftly became a zoo, with the paramedics, the police and half the staff flooding in. Coming down from his adrenaline high, John stood back and began to put on his clothes in a corner. He'd have felt more embarrassed about the nudity if Mycroft weren't stealing everyone's attention with his bizarre post-mortem erection. People couldn't keep their eyes off it for long.

"At least he died happy," John heard one person mutter as Mycroft was loaded onto a gurney and taken from the scene. They were still trying to revive him, but after ten minutes (fifteen, John mentally corrected), no one really thought it would happen. The paramedic made a face as he straddled Mycroft's waist to continue the resuscitation, more than aware of what jutted up behind him. It was a most undignified exit.

Lestrade's voice came from another corner and stole John's attention. "--And was Watson alone with him at the time?"

"Yes, but he called for help immediately," the Guard replied. "It's not his fault."

"How can you know?"

"He was still… on that… when I entered the room. It must have just happened. He tried to save Mr. Holmes. He really did. I'm certain of it."

John suppressed a smile. Sherlock had been right in all regards.

Despite the good word, Lestrade walked up to him with a sober face. "Hello again, John," he said.

"Hello."

"You know what I have to do, don't you."

John nodded and let himself be cuffed. It was worth it. He'd once made an oath to protect Queen and country. Now he felt that oath fulfilled. As awful as it had been, he'd have done it all again in a heartbeat.

* * *

 

The charges were dropped after the autopsy confirmed the diagnosis of sudden cardiac death. Mycroft lived a life of stress and indulgence and it had left its share telltales on the heart muscle. Perhaps he would have dropped from a heart attack at some point, but it was just as well that they hadn't waited for that day.

Sherlock met him at the jail doors with a grim face and a nod. Mourning black made his skin look even paler than usual. John nodded back and followed him out the door, not limping at all.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, once they were on the street.

"I'm fine. It went exactly as you planned," said John. "I was able to bargain for privacy, just as you said I would be. I worried for a bit that he wouldn't unstrap me, but eventually he did. I killed him just the way I did that Taliban rebel in Afghanistan."

"Shhh," said Sherlock, covering his mouth with his long fingers. "There are still too many of my brother's lackey's around. Never openly admit that again."

John looked, but there was no one around him. He couldn't stay paranoid anymore. Under the trappings of mourning, it seemed to him that the city quietly celebrated. The country had taken a collective deep breath.

"I'll have the money put in your account by the end of the week," Sherlock was saying. "Any sooner will look too suspicious, and even at that it will look odd. I will try to make it genuinely appear to come from an aunt of yours."

John stopped and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Listen, I know you hired me for this job. But I didn't do this for the money. You can pay me in a week or in a year, or not at all. I don't care."

Sherlock stared. "What you did… was incredible." He seized John's shoulders. "You have no idea what it's been like to live under that man. If I could have done it myself, I would have. But I couldn't. For all he did, he was still my brother." He let John go, as if realizing how badly that might feel to a man who had been recently kidnapped. "I have to reward you in some way. My conscience won't let me not."

"Well, if you really want to give me something I want, you could let me stay on as your flatmate. I really enjoyed the last few days – not the bit with Mycroft – but the rest. Solving that murder. Conspiring. Your company." He colored shyly. "I really think we work well together."

Sherlock looked stunned, then a smile of joy grew on his face. John waited.

"Absolutely," said Sherlock, throwing an arm over his shoulders. "Oh, God, of course."

**Author's Note:**

> Includes rape, major character death, murder, debatable necrophilia.
> 
> A/N: for those who are interested, John took advantage of a rare effect called "commotio cordis" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commotio_cordis), or a timed blow to the heart during a specific part of its beat, to give Mycroft a heart attack. Actually being able to time it right is more a matter of luck than John made it seem.


End file.
